


In These Final Hours

by type_40_consulting_detective



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, M/M, Mutually Unrequited, Stag Nights & Bachelor Parties, You see but you do not observe, oh sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-10 05:50:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2013459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/type_40_consulting_detective/pseuds/type_40_consulting_detective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stag night takes a different turn when there is no rizlas game and no client to stop them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In These Final Hours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mydwynter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydwynter/gifts).



> Angst ship ahoy, and bbc canon compliant after the stag night.
> 
> Inspired by [I Can't Make You Love Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vfj-peP6a7o)

“I know ash!” I shout again, in case anyone in this bar doubts my extensive knowledge of 243 different types of tobacco ash.

“Alright, _you_  made your bloody point, let’s go.” John is herding me to the door and I know that look. More than a bit not good, Sherlock.

“ _He_  said I didn’t...” I complain, hoping John will understand how serious the situation is. I have been wronged, I must defend myself.

“I was there, Sherlock.” He says tenderly and more than a bit exasperated. John leads me out by a hand, and we stand in front of the club while I vomit up that last beer or three. He holds my neck and calls me a lightweight, but runs in for a bottle of water. He smiles like I’ve just done something truly brilliant, rather than something any infant can manage without a thought. I can almost hear my heart cracking, even if it is a pathetic metaphor and not an actual medical condition. I sip the cold water slowly, and it hits my stomach like a weight.

John after a few drinks is soft and affectionate in all the ways that he is guarded when he’s sober. This pub crawl was the best idea I have ever had, except for the day I decided to impress a war hero and he said brilliant instead of piss off.

“That’s enough; let’s go home.” _Home_. The word sets off bells and alarms making my stomach jolt again.

“Home?” I asked, brain racing, No, John can’t leave. Nononononono. John leaned into a cab and said 221 Baker Street, and now he’s holding open the cab door for me. Even after all this time, is this still home to him? I slide across the faux leather, but not as far as normally. John climbs in and our thighs touch. He pushed my shoulder softly, calling me a prat, but doesn’t protest when I laid my head drunkenly on his shoulder. We travel in silence, I am too comfortable to bother harassing the cabbie for his terrible driving or the long route he takes to hike up the rate.

“Sh’lock, we’re here. Sh’lock, pay the man.”

I startle as he moves away, and I toss a few bills at the cabbie. It must have been more than enough, because he thanks me cheerily and wishes me a good night. John opens the front door with the key he still has, has kept all this time, and waits for me just past the threshold. I stumble into him, have to have him steady me in his arms again. We stumble into the entryway and end up on the floor in a giggling heap.

“You are so drunk.” John chuckles, and rolls me off of him.

“You’re drunk, too.” I reply when he tries to stand, gives up and starts to crawl up the stairs. I snag his ankle when he passes, and he flops to the floor with a huff.

“We’re going to wake Mrs. Hudson.” He chuckles again as he mock whispers the words. The sound is more beautiful than the finest violin piece. I have forgotten how beautiful it is. The laughter in my memories never filled me with such warmth. It was a dull comparison to John here; now. Happy.

“Quick! To the flat!” I half whisper back as we try for the stairwell both crawling for them. We bump into each other in the narrow space between the wall and the banisters and knock each other about. John falls to his side on the stairs and I roll over to lay next to him, breath heavy with laughter and excitement. Almost as good as that first night, high on adrenaline and a partner in crime,well crime fighting, at his side.

“Sherlock, we’re never getting up there like this.”

“Then stay,” I say before I think about it. He quiets and I kick myself for the last three drinks, they have me soft and sentimental. I can decide if I should play it light or run away, when Mrs. Hudson opens her door.

“What are you doing back, I thought you’d be out late?”

“Ah, Hudders. What time is it?”

“You’ve only been out two hours.” John shuffles sleepily and falls down a step, jerking himself alert. “Oh, _John_ ,” she coos affectionately. “Get yourselves upstairs and sleep it off, boys.”

“Of course, Mrs. Hudson.” John starts to stand, and pulls me to my feet by the back of my coat. “Up you go, Sherlock, to bed.”

He’s touched me more tonight than any night since I came back, and my mind is cataloging every moment. Suddenly, even though I know he doesn’t mean _to bed_ , It’s all I can think about. Next week, he marries _her_. Next week, it’s over.

“It can’t be over.” I say out loud, arguing with my own thoughts as we reach the front door. I slap my hand over my stupid mouth, and knock myself into the wall.

“Could you really drink ‘nother...thing?”

“No. Lost our beakers.”

“It’s over.” John peels my coat off and attempts to hang it, missing the hook by half a foot and dropping it to the floor. He shrugs and drops his on top with a smirk. I toe off my shoes and he follows suit, leaning heavily on the wall next to me. I chance it and lay my head on his shoulder, nuzzling into the crook of his neck to smell him. There isn’t a trace of Mary’s awful perfume or her girly soaps, only pure John.

“Sh’lock, stop. ‘M not a pillow.”

“Sleepy, John.”

I am both sleepy and , at once, drunk-tired and keyed up. I do not want this night to end.

“Come on then.” John half drags me to my room and takes off my suit jacket before pushing me to sit on the bed. I flop back gracelessly and pull him down with me.

“Umf. Sh’lock. What?” His face is right above me and I stare into his eyes, willing him to see what I’m asking for. His eyes soften, moving from anger to a tenderness that steals my breath. He licks his lips, looks down at mine, and I make my move.

The comparison about first kisses and fire works is not an exaggeration. My whole body is alight and instinct takes over. My hands scrabble for purchase on his velveteen suit coat. The texture reminds me of a sham circus, and the assassins ( _and girl friend_ ) who tried to take him from me. I move my hands down his body to his arse and use it to pull him further up my body and closer.  John grasps on to my hair with both hands, pulling my head up and to the side.

I moan obscenely, his name spilling from my lips.  My left leg finds it’s way around his right, pulling his hips to slot with mine. He’s aroused, more than I am, surprisingly. The evidence is pressed bruisingly into my stomach.  John rocks into me, and it feels like heaven until my stomach heaves. I roll him off of me and stumble to the loo, the rest of the beer and water coming up in a few noisy heaves. I splash my face and gargle mint mouthwash. The man in the mirror looks well snogged and blurrily happy, but it’s a facade. I am drowning and prepared to grip on to anything to stay afloat. I think of the neat little kit hidden in the box springs and wonder if it’s safe to take some when John walks out.

There’s no sound from the bedroom, and I enter cautiously. I expect it to be empty, but John’s sitting on the edge of the bed. His coat is off, a good sign, but he also looks almost ready to stand and leave.

“Lay down.” John stiffens, anxiety plain in his every feature. “I’ll take the couch.”

John  walks to my dresser and pulls out a pair of pajamas trousers and a t-shirt from the drawer. I must look confusedly at the clothing in his hands, because he chuckles a bit.

“Going to the loo. I don’t sleep in jeans anymore.” He shuts the door behind himself, and I hurry to change while he is occupied. This could be worse, I think, he could have run out. Odds are good he’ll forget or at least forgive the snog and we can move on. I’ll never forget the chapped edges of his lips and the way his natural scent and taste is like cinnamon and ginger, with musky undertones. Perhaps I will formulate a cologne of him, to keep him near when he isn’t. More than a bit not good, but what John doesn’t know…

I’m in only my pajama trousers when John comes in, and he ignores my bare skin. Skin is skin to an army man and a doctor, after all. Water droplets cling to his face and eyelashes where he splashed cold water to sober himself a little. He slides under the covers on the left side of the bed and pats the empty half. I mumble something about the couch, and he gives me a stern look.

“You should be near the loo.” Then quieter, almost broken, “It’s not like we’ve never shared a bed.” I forget to put on a shirt and do as John says, laying on the far edge of the bed and facing away from him.

I sometimes forget how cruel John can be. He plays dirty with the best of them, and it’s only by sheer force of will that he remains on the side of good. My mind is full of that night, a trip to Kirkham and only one hotel room to be found for miles. The indulgent smiles of the couple who ran the bed and breakfast when John played it up to help with our cover. The heat of his body through the blankets he laid on top of, while I slept under them. Waking once in the night to find him spooned against me, morning arousal jammed into my back. The simplistic case took three days because I was so distracted by the nearness of him.

“How do you feel, Sherlock?” I don’t answer so he elaborates. “Do you still feel nauseous?”

“No.” I whisper, and he leans over me to look at my face. I turn my head towards him so he will hear me clearly. “No.”

“Good, “ John replies, but doesn’t move away. He’s blazing like a furnace behind me. I can feel the heat from his skin against mine sinking into my core, traveling low into my belly.

“I can’t sleep.” I say, just to fill the empty space. His eyes are predatory, dark, and I can feel his pulse race before he leans in to kiss me.

It’s like a dam has broken. We are all teeth and tongue. Heat and urgency in our kiss. I’m all at once sad and grateful for the cover I had to keep when I was dead, and the practice it provided me. I shift myself under him, letting him take charge, take from me until I am an empty husk. He’s the conscience here, and I will have no regrets.

John crawls down my body, leaving possessive bites on my pale skin. They are purpling quick, and will ache stunningly for weeks. The sounds coming from him are near growls at the sight of <i>his</i> marks. It’s only right for the outside to match the inside; every place in my mind has marks of John’s presence. His hands slip down my pajama trousers and he wastes no time consuming me. I give him every shuddering breath, every whimper and moan he pulls out of me. He comes back up to kiss me again, murmuring false praises to keep my compliant.

_”Beautiful. My beautiful, brilliant Sherlock.”_

I mustn’t let him know I know. Instead, my mind races for something, anything to say.

“Have me, John. Anything.” His eyes widen in surprise and I’m confused. Isn’t this what he has been priming me for? One last conquest before domestic bliss sets in, or else one night to punish me and show me what I lost when I left. It hurts to think about this, so I lock those voices behind a thick steel door. If John wants to pretend it’s unexpected, I will pretend with him. “Please, John. Fill me.”

My voice almost does not hitch.

I play this off as I wriggle out from under him and pull lube from the drawer. Turned on to my side away from John, I quickly prep myself before he changes his mind. He shows no signs of it, but I am cautious. He’s softly stroking up and down my back and speaking quiet words into the skin of my neck. Most of them are mumbles between kisses, but I do hear _Amazing_ , and _Fantastic,_  and _I never thought you would._  When I am ready enough to avoid injury but not to escape pain, I wipe my hand on my duvet cover.  It will stain. I do not care. I’m burning everything he’s touched if I get the chance, including myself.

“Do you have a…” John starts to ask.

“No. No need.” I want to say _Nothing between us John, nothing done by halves_. He is still, and I chance a beg. “Please, John, just us.” He kisses my neck again.

“Yes. God. Yes, you madman. How do you want it?”

Unsure if he means positions or mood, I take another leap. “Hard. Now.” My voice cracks, now with pure need, and I know John can hear it. I kneel, arching my back to present myself to him. I try to become nothing but a warm place to bury himself for a few minutes. John slicks himself with some lube and plunges in half way. The pain of it breaks my attention and a strangled cry leaves my throat. John half sobs and pulls me against his chest, rolling us to our sides and slowing down.

I panic; this isn’t right. This isn’t being used, being punished, being taken. This is softness, sentiment, and it’s too much to bear. For a moment, I can believe he really loves me. His hands wander my skin, touching me like a lover, and his gentile kisses are peppered with sweet words. I hold back my tears, not giving him the satisfaction of breaking me. That is one thing I will never give John. _My John_. It will be the only thing I have left when he leaves.

John shifts, and the angle is geared for my pleasure alone. His hand concentrates on stroking me, his voice is rough and his pace is uneven. Suddenly I’m gasping, nearly sobbing, and it’s not an act any longer. I’m shattering in his arms while he begs me to come for him, and I can’t deny him that. He fills me and it burns. I will myself to burn to ashes, rather than face tomorrow.

Later I won’t remember the sounds I made, but I will remember how he held me while I sobbed, crying myself to sleep. I will remember the warm wash cloth wiping me clean, and the tender kiss on the forehead. I will remember his steady heartbeat in my ear when I turn to him and lay on his chest.

I won’t remember him dressing and leaving at dawn.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a [tumblr post](http://mydwynter.tumblr.com/post/92595490542/some-day-when-im-in-a-particularly-shitty-mood) by [MydWynter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mydwynter/pseuds/mydwynter). Hope you aren't bothered I took the song and ran with it.
> 
> Beta'd by my fellow angst whore [beautifulyheeled](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifullyheeled/pseuds/beautifullyheeled), without whom this would be a half finished lump in googledocs until the machines rise up and overtake us.


End file.
